


Sheep's Wool

by malchanceux



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Survival, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: Fill for a prompt. Hannibal Lecter seen as Oliver Queen's psychiatrist after Lain Yu.Prompt: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/3166.html?thread=6103902#cmt6103902





	Sheep's Wool

**Author's Note:**

> I promised this a long time ago. I *wrote* this a long time ago. I slapped on an end to wrap it up. I'll leave it open for a second chapter, but I have no idea when I'll get back to this. Just wanted it off my desktop.

 

 

 

 

 

Oliver Queen walks into Hannibal Lecter’s office with a secretive, smug smile splitting his lips; his inexorable mother trailing swiftly behind. Hannibal had talked to Ms. Queen not days prior about her son—recently saved from five years stranded on a deserted island—and how she wanted only the best of minds to cure her boy.

_ “The relationship between doctor and patient is not like so of a salesman and customer,” _ he’d replied in all seriousness,  _ “there is no easy cure for anyone’s mental afflictions—and just because one has all the necessary credentials does not mean he or she is a perfect match for the afflicted. I would be more than happy to set up an appointment with your son, but it will be up to Oliver whether or not I take him on as a patient, and whether or not he can be  _ ‘cured’ _.” _

Moira Queen regarding Hannibal cooly before answering, taking every word into full consideration,  _ “No overconfidence, no sugar coating the truth, no assumption as to whether or not the cursory appointment would end in a prolonged business transaction: you are refreshingly different than the other doctor I was recommended.” _

Chilton, it turned out, did not have a way with people beyond his intelligence—or beyond that of criminal behavior, at least. All the better for Hannibal to benefit from, it seemed. His folly had gained Hannibal a potentially interesting patient indeed.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Lecter,” Moira greeted, her face a carefully constructed calm pleasantness. The tightness around her eyes and her stiff posture spoke of frustration, however. Hannibal took her hand in a gentle shake.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Queen,” he nodded to Oliver, “Mr. Queen.”

“Oh god no—just Oliver. Or Ollie,” the boy chided playfully, and withheld shaking the doctor’s hand, keeping his own clasped behind his back. Purposely rude. “ _ ’Mr. Queen’ _ was my dad. It makes me sound damned old.”

“Oliver then,” Hannibal amended with a courteous nod and a gracious smile.

“Much better,” Oliver chirped before plopping down into the soft leather chair the doctor’s patients usually occupied. Moira sighed quietly before turning back to Hannibal, exasperated.

“Thank you again for agreeing to see my son, I—” she cut herself off, flicking her eyes to Oliver and then back to the doctor, clearly irritated but trying hard to conceal it, “I’ll come back for him within the hour.”

“Of course,” Hannibal said, walking Moira to the waiting room and seeing her out. He shut the door and went around to his own chair, sitting with less weight and enthusiasm than Oliver had, and plucked his journal and pen up from the table beside him. Hannibal did not open it, however. Some patients grew nervous and apprehensive when notes were jotted down so openly, became skittish. Others preened under what the perceived as validation to the undivided attention being given to them. The booklet unopened but on the doctor’s lap would give him a subtle way to determine which category Oliver Queen fell under.

“So,” the boy huffed, bravado gushing from his very pores. He eyed the book briefly but quickly returned his gaze to Hannibal’s, “What’s on the menu today? Are you going to  _ Warshak _ me, Doctor?”

“If you feel that would benefit you, perhaps at a later date,” Hannibal sat back in his chair with an air of ease, his legs crossed primly to comfortably balance his journal. In contrast, Oliver slouched in his seat, legs opened wide in the embodiment of nonchalance and, again, with a touch of irritable purpose, “I believe an establishment of what ails you is in order, wouldn’t you agree Oliver?”

“We can always pick up where the other guy left off.”

“Dr. Chilton? I was under the impression you had not sought his counsel.”

Oliver chuckled, “I didn’t. My mother brought me along when she was screening shrinks. He decided that waiting to actually get  _ hired  _ was a waste of time. Poked and prodded almost before we could sit down. Lucky me: I got to stay behind for the other interviews after that.”

In a room with a mind that had been in a constant battle for survival for over five years, completely isolated from the  _ ‘civilized’  _ world, Hannibal could only imagine the liberties Chilton had tried to take with Moira Queen still in the room. He wondered how crass the man had been, what questions he’d been so daring to ask.

“Dr. Chilton has an unfortunate tendency to be a bit  _ forward  _ at times,” Hannibal said. Oliver scoffed at the understatement, “Perhaps we could start where he last prodded.”

“You sure about that, Doc? You don’t even know what his line of questioning was. For all you know, he coulda left off on if and how my sex drive was affected by my five year beachside  _ vacation _ , or whether or not I find it harder to get a stiffy now that I've been through such a  _ ‘traumatic experience’. _ ”

“Certainly nothing so Freudian. Chilton has never been known to pay respects to the founders of our profession,” Hannibal replied, purposely ignoring the crude language and obvious goading.

“And do you, Doctor Lecter?”

“Freud was an esteemed psychologist of his time, if perhaps a bit misunderstood. He brought a lot to the table for psychoanalysis, like many doctors during that era. I pay my respects where they are due, and take what I can from what Freud and men like him can offer me. From there I extrapolate and build upon what modern science has given us since their passing,” Hannibal watched Oliver very closely as he spoke. Watched for facial tics or nervous twiddling, irritated shuffling or interest brightening the eyes, or lack thereof dulling them. He saw none of the usual emotions that flickered across the body during conversation, “Is that not what we, as human beings, should do? Take what those before us have done and learn from our missteps and successes?”

“I think at some point you have to throw in the towel and realize that the  _ founders of psychology  _ were a bit off their rockers and sex obsessed, and that perhaps a little boy’s fear of horses has to do with a sense of unease around something with the potential to  _ trample  _ them*.”

Perhaps to most the comment would come off as humorous. The pitch in which Oliver Queen spoke would have nearly anyone believing in his sharp tongued wit, but to Hannibal’s trained ear, it was a hollow remark. Practiced like a reflex. Almost no emotion behind it for the psychiatrist to build upon. 

Almost.

“That’s the third time you’ve brought up sex, Oliver,” Hannibal says smoothly. Oliver’s lip twitches the slightest bit, he blinks slowly. Save for those two miniscule reactions, the boy’s mask does not falter.

“Didn’t realize. Wasn’t counting,” he replies, nonchalant save for the barest hint of ice that’s grown into his voice, defensive. Hardly noticeable to someone who wasn’t listening for it. 

Hannibal was being paid a very pretty penny to listen for it.

“Is it comforting for you to hide behind your facetious persona because it is giving your loved ones what you think they need, or are you trying to fit back into the ‘Oliver Queen’ you left behind five years ago to cope with the time you’ve lost?”

A beat of silence.

Two.

The easy going mask of party boy  _ Ollie  _ becomes strained. There is surprise flickering in the boy’s eyes. He had not expected Hannibal to be able to see him, to read behind the worn lines and cracks of his act, at least not so soon, definitely not in their first session. Perhaps if Mrs. Queen had settled with Chilton, Oliver could have gotten away with his performance for a very long time—for the entire duration of their appointments, even—but one who wears a mask is quick to spot the seams of another’s. And Hannibal did so enjoy a good masquerade.

“Really, Doc?” Oliver scoffs. He is quick to relax any tense muscles and to keep his lazy posture. The butchering of Hannibal’s title is purposeful and telling, “That’s what you’re gonna go with? Sounds a little plain-Jane to me, a little General Hospital-esque. I thought you were going to dabble into the  _ bad touch _ , get a little risqué. I’m almost disappointed.”

Oliver crosses his arms over his chest and smirks, still forced but less obviously so. Hannibal takes in the position with interest, noting how tightly the boy holds himself, most probably without him realizing it, and how physically grounding himself has strengthened his façade.

“I would apologize, but I’m afraid nothing will get done if we are not forward with each other. Psychoanalysis is what I do, it is what you came here for, in a sense. How am I supposed to help you if I do not know you, or at least  _ see _ you? Perhaps my perception seems bland, but Occam’s Razor has more often than not proven beneficial in this field. I find that what troubles the mind is far simpler than what some would come to believe.”

“Simple or not, there’s nothing much going on up here,” Oliver taps his temple, still smirking, “Even before the five years of Extreme Boy Scouts. Trust me, the paparazzi loved me for a reason. If I mention sex it’s ‘cause it’s on the mind—I don’t need to fake something I already am.”

Hannibal sits forward then, keeping his gaze steady with Oliver’s. They weren’t going to get anywhere this way—the boy would have them talking in circles. He was far from empty-headed, for sure, no matter what  _ ‘Ollie’ _ Queen was like before being shipwrecked off the coast of China.

“I have seen your medical records,” he says, satisfied by the flicker of darkness he sees in the young Queen’s eyes. It is there for no more than a second, but there all the same. A crack of any size in Oliver’s mask was progress, “Since circumstances such as yours are so rare, the court system was rather baffled of what to do. As I’m sure you’re aware, your mother petitioned guardianship, despite your age, until your mental state could be properly evaluated. They acquiesced. She thought having full knowledge of your physical health was important to understand your mental standings.”

Hannibal lets that sink in, let's the  _ implications _ sink in before stating them bluntly anyway.

“Nearly 20% of your body is covered in scar tissue, including second-degree burns on your back and upper arms. You have twelve improperly healed fractures. In the doctor’s notes, it was recorded that upon first arriving at a proper hospital you exhibited signs of PTSD. The longer you were under observation, the less the symptoms appeared. The doctor on-call chalked it up to new surroundings, too many people after so long in isolation. But do you want to know what I think, Oliver?”

The boy shakes his head, slow—a mere sad tick of his head from left to right; muted like the atmosphere that has settled over the office. Oliver’s smile has melted away, his irritating posturing shriveling in on itself, leaving only a blank expression and hard eyes behind. A peak behind a mask to a  _ truer  _ mask. A façade within a façade, but more close to the real Oliver Queen, sole survivor of the shipwreck that took his father and girlfriend’s sister, than perhaps anyone had seen since his miraculous return.

“I think that Lain Yu broke you, Oliver, in almost every way imaginable. To preserve what you could, to  _ survive _ , you evolved. Became something different, something stronger. The predator instead of the prey. I have read reports that say you’ve claimed to have been the only other human being on that island, that you were completely isolated—but that isn’t quite true, now is it, Oliver? Of course not; preservation from our kind in this century is an impossible concept to entertain. And those scars were made by more than just animals or clumsy falls in the jungle. I was a medical doctor before I was a psychiatrist. I should know.”

There is a tense silence then. One alpha calling another on his posturing. And that's what Oliver was, clearly. Alpha male. Animalistic in his thoughts, Hannibal mused. He would have to be to survive as long as he did on that island. Sophistication is not what carried the young man through five years of what truly must have felt like Hell itself. 

Several, quiet minutes pass before Oliver's lips finally part to reply. 

There is a knock at the door. 

_ How incredibly rude.  _

Hannibal glances at his watch. Their hour was up. A quick survey of the young Queen shows his mask securely back in place. Inches of progress made, but the doctor knew he wouldn't be able to get back under the boy’s skin. Not this session, at least. Not entirely surprising, the doctor found he desired another go at the persona that was Oliver Queen. 

“Apologies, Oliver, it appears our time is up.” 

“Already? I thought we were just starting to have fun,” Oliver quips, though his bravado is shaky at best under Hannibal's trained eye. 

“And we will continue to do so in our next session,” Hannibal stands, reaches out to shake Oliver's hand. 

“ _ If  _ there's another session,” the young Queen's grip is firm with temper. 

“Of course,” Hannibal defers. They both knew that wasn't a choice left up to Oliver.

The source of the knock turns out to be another young man, around Oliver's age, who carried the same college fraternity charms as the young Queen, though more sincerely so. Perhaps rude, but the young man had given Hannibal an idea of where Oliver's chose persona originated from. 

“Sorry--I wasn't sure if I was supposed to knock or not. I'm Tommy,” he takes Hannibal's hand amicably enough. “I'm here to pick up Ollie.” 

“I'm right here. And can drive. I don't need to be  _ picked up.”  _

“Sorry dude, your mom's orders. Uh,” Tommy graces Hannibal with a clumsy deferral. “It was nice meeting you--?” 

“Hannibal Lecter.” 

“Right, it was nice meeting you Doctor Lecter.”

“Of course. And Oliver,” Hannibal says the name carefully. “I do hope to see you again.” 

The steel in Oliver's eyes spoke wonders of what he thought of returning; riled against the idea of not having a choice in the matter. The ball was in Hannibal's court, so to speak. All he had to do was convince Moira Queen of his competency as a doctor and he would have his desired second visit with the boy. 

“Sure,” was Oliver's response, cracking a smirk. “Whatever you want doc. I'll see you later. Or maybe not.” 

Somehow they both knew it was a matter of when Oliver would see Hannibal again, not  _ if.  _

 

 

 

 


End file.
